


Always

by OrionLady



Series: Figlio Mozzato [5]
Category: Flashpoint (TV)
Genre: Angst, Assault, Authentic love for Tim Hortons because Canada, Epic Friendship, F/M, Families of Choice, Friendship, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Insecurity, Original Character(s), Parkinson's Disease, Protectiveness, Secrets, Team as Family
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-25
Updated: 2019-09-27
Packaged: 2020-10-28 02:15:18
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 9
Words: 17,943
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20770862
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/OrionLady/pseuds/OrionLady
Summary: Teams and secrets don't go well together. Families and secrets, well...Greg may not be team leader or even SRU anymore - but he'll be damned if he lets someone keep hurting Spike right under their noses, however much the tech wants to keep it hidden.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This is part of a larger series but it's not necessary to read the others first. Set a few months after _Crosshairs_.
> 
> The inspiration songs for this piece that really helped me write it are:  
“Golden Slumbers/Carry that Weight” ~ Jennifer Hudson  
“The Sun Will Rise” ~ The Brilliance

“You ready to get bested at the fiercest billiard game of your life? Ed?” Greg still didn’t lose his smile while glancing around for Ed. They’d agreed to meet at the SRU entrance to head out and try that new lunch spot. “Eddie?”

Limping further into the building, Greg was surprised to see the barn so empty.

Winnie stood behind her desk, utterly motionless. She seemed to be straining forward. 

Greg squinted at her. “Winnie?”

“Oh!” She jumped. A faint blush warmed her cheeks. “Hey, sarg!”

In the usual ritual, even after a little over a year of this, Winnie came around the desk to give Greg a hug. He was a regular in the building, despite the fact he technically didn’t work here anymore.

Greg got upset phone calls if he stayed away from the station for longer than a week. It was…nice. More touching than he cared to admit.

Winnie held on to Greg for a beat longer than he expected, and she was tighter than a repel line in his arms. Greg’s worry amped up. “What’s going on?”

Winnie pulled away, again glancing down the hall. “I don’t know. Team One’s shift hasn’t even started yet but Holleran’s furious.”

Sure enough, Greg could hear two hot voices trying to whisper and failing.

“Where’s Eddie?” 

Winnie’s lips thinned into a bowstring. “Maybe you should…”

“Yeah.” Greg patted her arm. “I’m on it.”

Finally, she sat down but Greg felt her eyes follow his back until he turned the corner.

Greg was still riding the idyllic fog from taking this day off, cushy and lax. So what he was looking at didn’t compute for a moment.

Commander Holleran—flat palm on Ed’s chest.

He was holding him back.

From his office’s closed, locked door—locked from the _outside_. A temporary holding cell.

Ed looked boggled more than anything. “For the last time, there’s been a mistake. No way.”

“Ed, come on.” Holleran’s tone was calmer, level, but exponentially more urgent. “What else can we infer from this? Neither had injuries when they left last night. Now they both come in with blood on their faces?”

Greg realized he’d stopped moving out of sheer surprise. He shook himself.

“Gentlemen?”

Ed whirled and his whole posture deflated when he saw Greg. “Thank God. Someone who can talk sense.”

Something squirmed inside Greg’s stomach. “I’m not a team leader anymore. This is technically none of my busin—”

“Like hell it is,” Ed snapped. Anger appeared on his face for the first time. “Greg has more right here than any of us. Holleran, before we go ruining two good officers’ records here, can we at least hear their side of the story? I’m their superior—”

Holleran’s hand tightened on Ed. “Not Braddock’s, you’re not.”

“Doesn’t matter,” Ed insisted. “Let me talk to them.”

“No. This is a disciplinary issue.”

Greg had stayed quiet, assessing the situation, but nothing made sense. He held up a hand. “Whoa, whoa. Someone’s injured and we’re just standing here?”

“Superficial,” said Holleran. He let go of Ed with a dubious look.

Ed, likewise, eyed him shrewdly. “You’re sure?”

Holleran hesitated. “Sam said he checked them both out. Did a basic checklist. No concussion or fractures.”

Greg’s worry mounted. He reached around Ed and put a hand on the door. “Holleran, I’m asking this as a friend: can we please just talk to them, off record? I don’t even know who’s in trouble here or why.”

Holleran huffed but Greg could see his resolve crumbling. Same story, really, whenever Greg asked for something like this. Holleran reached into his pocket and removed the door key. Ed practically vibrated at Greg’s side.

_Ed hasn’t seen them._

And really, that should have been Greg’s first clue. That they’d snuck in to work without anyone noticing.

_Greg’s_ first sight of them, when Ed finally bullied his way in, was not what he expected—

Sam sat in a chair closest to the door. It was pulled up flush, arm rests almost overlapping, next to Spike’s.

They’d been arguing, hushed, but pulled apart when they saw Ed. Spike’s face was stony. Sam threw a pleading look his way, only for Spike to subtly shake his head. 

A brilliant splotch of purple and yellow ringed Sam’s left cheekbone. The grainy flecks of red ringing his nostrils spoke of a nosebleed long stopped.

Spike only had an oval bruise on his lower jaw but his stiff posture attracted Ed’s eyes in an instant. Spike kept his back carefully away from the chair, while Sam rested fully.

They were both in plain clothes, though the collar of Spike’s shirt was ripped.

Greg’s chest did a funny flip flop.

He sat on the edge of Holleran’s desk, while Ed chose to stand beside him, arms crossed. Holleran hovered somewhere in the background. He, wisely, stayed quiet.

Sam’s eyes bugged. “They called you in just for this, boss?”

Greg couldn’t help but smile. “I was in the neighbourhood.”

“Fighting is prohibited at the SRU,” said Ed. “You know that, right?” 

Greg asked a more pressing question. “Are either of you hurt beyond what I can see?”

Spike shook his head without a word.

“We’re…fine.” Sam answered for them. He stole another flash of a look at Spike. “And we weren’t fighting with cops. Or each other.”

Sam scoffed at that one, offended by the very thought.

Spike kept his eyes up, respectful, but very strategically away from direct eye contact. Greg clenched a fist, feeling his wedding ring bite the skin.

Ed, too, was rigid beside him. The expression on Spike’s face looked too much like a few months ago, the bombing. The hospital. An unresponsive Spike with a gun in his lap.

It rattled something in Greg’s lungs and he cleared his throat. “Spike? Wanna weigh in here?”

“If you don’t,” Holleran added, “I’ll have to suspend you both.”

_That_ got Spike and Sam’s gasping attention.

And Greg’s. He fought a growl. “Now, sir—”

“No.” Holleran glared at him, the kids, the room in general. “Fighting is frowned upon among cops, even if it’s just a bar fight. You know what, _especially_ if it’s a bar fight. We’re better than that. If I have to make an example of you, then so be it.”

“A bar fight,” Spike blurted suddenly. Everyone turned back to him. “How did you know, sir?”

His tone echoed oddly in the small office but Holleran just sighed. “You’re both young. You got off late last night and are in early this morning. It’s the only place it could have happened.”

Sam kept his silence this time.

Ed’s eyes narrowed. “Spike, you’re not really a strike first, talk later type of guy. You’ve never been in a bar fight in your life. So don’t lie to me.”

“I’m…I just…”

“Spike.” Ed’s volume climbed. “It’s momentary embarrassment or suspension.”

“You can’t—”

“Talk. _Now_.”

He’d been leaning forward during this ultimatum, closer into Spike’s space.

Nobody was sure what happened, what invisible line Ed crossed, but in the next second Greg’s world rocked:

Sam threw an arm in front of Spike. Right across his chest. It was firm and angry and it matched Sam’s hard glower at Ed.

It was pure _instinct_.

In that one move, the whole ball game changed. This was no longer about bar fights or schoolboy punches.

Holleran audibly stopped breathing.

The room seemed to spin a one-eighty and Ed immediately, in obedience to a similar instinct, took one look at Spike’s blanched face and stepped back. He even dragged over a chair and sat down, so he wasn’t towering over them.

It was the very first time, in Greg’s memory, he had ever seen Spike afraid of Ed. Ed, who’d always represented safety and home for the tech.

Sam retracted his protective arm but it didn’t matter. Greg knew he’d be seeing that shocking image behind his eyelids for weeks.

Silence hung over the room.

Like Ed, Sam was vibrating with a certain energy. Imperative. Demanding. He schooled it into a squirm, though they were all too well trained to be fooled.

“So not a bar fight,” said Ed softly.

Spike uncoiled a bit. Enough for everyone to breathe properly again.

Greg didn’t dare lean forward after that scene but he ducked his head a tad to catch Spike’s eyes. Unsuccessful. “Spike? Who hit you?”

“I’m fine.”

He kept his voice quiet. “That’s not what I asked.”

“I don’t live in the best neighbourhood.” Spike’s voice was thin. “Sam and I stopped some…unsavoury people on our way to work this morning.”

Greg exchanged a surprised look with Ed.

“And you didn’t call it in?” asked Holleran.

Spike glanced at Sam, who shuffled to the edge of his seat. This put Sam closer to Greg than Spike. First line of defense.

Greg went from floored to gobsmacked. Neither of the younger men were acting like themselves.

“They got away,” said Sam, firm.

For the first time since Greg walked into the room, this rang as the complete truth.

Ed seemed to feel it too, nodding. “Okay. We trust you.”

“We do?” Holleran rounded his desk. Right on cue, Sam tensed. “Braddock, someone nearly fractured your sinusoidal bone. And I should pretend like nothing happened?”

“We’re fit for duty,” said Spike, still the quietest voice in the room. “It was just a scuffle.”

Sam opened his mouth with a stormy brow like he wanted to argue that, but Holleran beat him to it.

“I don’t care about the scuffle, Scarlatti—I care that this may encourage fighting or vigilantism.”

“I’ll vouch for them.” Ed stood. “Put them on a week’s probation watch with me, off the books.”

Spike frowned but Sam wilted with relief.

“They’re upstanding officers, Holleran,” Greg added. “Can’t they get a warning for this first infraction?”

Holleran sighed. “I’ve missed your peace corps attitude, Parker.”

Greg flicked him a two-fingered salute and Ed grinned.

Holleran waved him off. “Dismissed with a warning, all of you. Get out of my office.”

They did, but not before Ed bent down and—oh so slowly—placed a hand on Spike’s forearm. One finger at a time. An apology and reassurance all in one. The motion was carefully drawn out to let Spike pull away if he wanted to.

Sam halted in the doorway, watching but not intervening.

It was the fretting in Ed’s face, vulnerable, that smoothed some of the lines around Sam’s mouth. He looked like himself again.

Spike, however, didn’t relax until almost ten whole seconds of Ed’s hand arriving on his arm.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Spike's not actually scared of Ed, don't worry! He's just a lil startled at the moment.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Greg squinted and yep, there it was—the corner of a filthy nightgown and a very tiny bare foot.
> 
> Nausea climbed in Greg’s throat, that this had been happening for a month, right down the street. Maybe he really should keep his nose in the business of his neighbours more.

Thanks to a cane and a walking pace that made elephants look zippy, Greg didn’t have the element of surprise anymore.

His tapping approach made Winnie sigh.

She didn’t look up from a giant stack of archive forms. “If you’re going to give me the ‘dad talk,’ you should know that Ed already beat you to it. And Jules. Somehow Jules’ was scarier, if you can believe that.”

Greg blinked. “Uh…dad talk? I’m here to visit my favourite dispatcher.”

“Oh good.” Winnie glanced up. “I always thought the boy was supposed to get the shovel talk anyway.”

Greg leaned his folded arms on the desk. “They told you to treat him right, huh?”

“I get it.” She shrugged but her face was solemn. “It’s Spike.”

And that said it all, didn’t it?

If anyone was going to get hurt in a relationship, it would be pure-hearted Spike. His emotional walls had been battered since childhood, making them stronger—but more painful—than most.

“It’s just been a hard year for him, that’s all,” he rushed to reassure her.

“Tell me about it!” Winnie flopped back with a huff. “I’m going to have an ulcer before I reach midlife if you guys keep up with this almost-dying stuff.”

“I have complete faith in you both,” said Greg, lips quirking.

Winnie mirrored the smile.

“So, yesterday…” Greg began.

Winnie shook her head. “Spike would barely talk about it on our date last night. Their story makes sense, though. His sketchy neighbourhood is the reason he doesn’t want me moving in.”

A few gears whirred in Greg’s head at that tidbit of information but he didn’t voice them.

“Has he been okay lately?” he asked. “Really? Because he doesn’t come by my place as often.”

Winnie grimaced at this news. “That’s not like him.”

“Tell me about it.” Greg blew out a terse breath. “It’s been a huge red flag, not seeing him around the last few weeks.”

“I don’t know what to tell you, sarg. Spike’s been himself just…”

Greg hunched in close. “Just what, Winnie?”

“Kind of quiet, you know?”

“Quiet,” Greg repeated, stretching the word out.

Spike was all humour and broad smiles and fast talking theories. It was when he _stopped _that the team tended to go on alert.

“He’s normal at work, though,” Winnie tacked on. “Even with me. Just when he thinks no one’s watching, or when it’s just he and Sam, he’ll get silent.”

Greg’s gut cinched. “Thank you for telling me.”

“I don’t think…” Winnie licked her lips in a nervous gesture. “Now that you mention it…I don’t think I’ve seen Spike laugh since his surprise party.”

And how could Greg forget _that _memory? An owl-eyed Spike in the wake of confetti and ‘hitting the big 3-0’ banners everywhere. They’d been all over him, rife with back slaps and hugs and jokes about getting old.

Ha. Spike was the youngest of them all. In every way possible.

Winnie peered up at him. “You didn’t really come to visit me, did you? Recon only?”

Greg clapped his hands. “Of course I did! I even brought a present.”

From the handle of his cane, Greg unhooked a bag of mini donuts—Winnie’s favourite.

She lit up when she spied them. “Cinnamon?”

“Is there any other kind?”

Winnie leaned across the desk to peck Greg’s cheek. “You’re the best.”

“Now if only we could convince my students of that.”

Greg let the ringing sound of Winnie’s laughter and zing of cinnamon sugar on his tongue carry his mind away from worry and bruised faces.

* * *

It was embarrassing, really. He should have known it was well overdue to happen.

Still, the moment that distinctive siren pulled onto their street, Greg jumped halfway out of his chair. Marina cried out and dropped her cereal spoon. Milk splattered across the table.

Reaching across, Greg captured her hand. “Sorry, honey. Old habits.”

She blinked hard a few times, her own trauma floating somewhere in the foreground, before nodding. “Of course. Oh, but…what on earth would they be doing _here_? We don’t have criminal neighbours and it’s a Saturday!”

Greg didn’t point out that most domestic calls happened on the weekend and wealth had nothing to do with criminal rates.

“I’m not sure,” he said instead. “Are you okay here if I just go check?”

Marina handed him his cane. She got that half-grin and twinkle in her eye Greg so adored.

It said ‘kiss me at once’ and Greg happily leaned down to comply. Love pooled in his stomach. Some days, he wasn’t sure he deserved all this family, this happiness. But he basked in it all the same.

“Wouldn’t have it any other way,” she said against his lips. “It was only a matter of time until you ran into them on a case.”

Greg pulled away to brush back her hair. “You’re a special lady, you know that?”

“So a certain man keeps telling me. Handsome, pert—you know him?”

Greg kissed her again. “Maybe. He’s terrible at keeping his nose out of other peoples’ business though. You should warn him about that.”

Marina giggled. “Get out of here. Go save someone.”

After a last call of—“be safe and stay away from the windows!”—Greg followed the trail of black SUVs to a residence four houses down the street. He didn’t know these neighbours, except that they’d moved in recently.

The action seemed to be over, judging by uniforms standing around, writing up reports and taking forensic photos.

A familiar crop of hair fluttered in the wind and Greg felt another rush, a cocktail of relief and love. “Spike!”

The tech didn’t look surprised to see him. He shielded his eyes against the morning sun with the hand not typing something in a laptop on the hood of the car. “Couldn’t believe it when we pulled onto your street, boss. What are the chances?”

Greg’s eyes ran a quick assessment over his boy. No injury. Even the bruise from three days ago looked better. “Bad call?”

Spike wagged his head slightly back and forth. “Domestic call, severe abuse. Including with a gun, hence why we got the call.”

“Good news?”

“Nobody died.” Spike pointed to a man being loaded into a waiting patrol car, nose busted. Greg hoped dearly Eddie had pistol whipped him. “Pretty open and shut case.”

“Thank heaven for that,” Greg muttered, glad he didn’t have to tell Marina something gruesome.

Spike nodded and then paused, listening to something in his ear. “Ed, let me try. I know,” Spike argued. “But Jules and Leah aren’t here. Leave it to me.”

“Try what?” Greg tailed after Spike’s dash for the back of the house. “Spike?”

Spike’s eyes were wide. He brushed past uniforms and EMTs wheeling a woman on a gurney.

Behind a bank of trees they found Ed, crouched low. He glanced at Spike and Greg’s shuffle through the leaves but didn’t get up.

“Hey, Greg. Sorry to disturb your morning.”

“Ed.” Greg rested his hand on Ed’s shoulder. “I’m just sorry I missed the action.”

Ed smirked up at him, a wonky action with how tense he was. “Sure you are.”

Then he locked eyes with Spike. “I’ve tried everything: food, a female officer, affirmations of safety. No response, even when I busted the lock.”

Greg finally saw that Eddie was crouched in front of a squat shed, overrun by vines. The door was crooked, hinged open into a dark space, like the mouth of a beast.

Spike studied it with a look of unease. Greg put a hand on his shoulder too.

“Spike?” Greg asked, hushed.

Spike inhaled a deliberate breath. “I got her.”

At the words, Greg squinted and yep, there it was—the corner of a filthy nightgown and a very tiny bare foot.

Nausea climbed in Greg’s throat, that this had been happening for a month, right down the street. Maybe he really should keep his nose in the business of his neighbours more.

When Spike removed his rifle, laying it in the grass, Ed stood. Greg’s hand followed the motion. Spike crept forward.

“Hey,” Spike spoke gently, but with a certain loudness that intended to be heard. “I’m Spike. These cops and their guns must be pretty scary, huh?”

Spike knelt at the door of the hut and slightly off to the side. The little girl, no older than nine, really was in a state. Bruised, hungry looking. A pair of big blue eyes peeked out.

Spike saw and grinned. He didn’t coax her out at all, didn’t assure her that Daddy was going away for a long time. He just knelt there and talked. Told her stories about Italian slums and new schools.

“…Because it’s supposed to rain and let me tell you, bare feet in the rain is no fun at all. I had to hide the tadpoles in my rubber boots so my mom didn’t find out. And she still did, can you believe that?”

The fountain of words faded from Spike’s lips. He gazed at the girl for a long, extended minute.

Then, to Greg’s surprise, he shifted on all fours and began crawling inside. That was new. Not exactly a textbook move. “You know, when I was a kid, my dad used to lock me in the closet whenever he felt I’d misbehaved. Just for a few hours.”

Ed’s breath snagged. Greg squeezed his taut shoulder. Both fought to stay composed, their mouths white and unsteady.

“He thought I hated it. But you know what?”

The little girl tracked Spike when he sat down across from her. Their feet touched.

Then came a croaked whisper. “What?”

Spike rested his chin on his knees. “After the initial fear of the dark, I _liked_ being in there. That was my childhood secret, that it was actually a relief to be somewhere quiet, unstimulated, away from the shouting.”

The little girl’s eyes widened at that. Spike had struck a nerve.

“You feel safe in here too, I’m guessing, even though he locks you in.”

Greg’s windpipe ached against unshed tears and Ed quivered with a mute brand of rage.

The girl stared at Spike, shadows ringing her bony clavicle that rose and fell with each thin breath. Then she nodded.

“You don’t have to live here anymore,” Spike promised. “No more yelling, no more wishing for food.”

Spike’s tone wavered, just a touch, and it took every last ounce of Greg’s willpower not to rush over and hold him.

The little girl’s hand snaked out. Spike already had one of his own waiting. Their two hands met and Spike clasped hers with a wink.

“Ready?”

She eyed Greg and Ed.

“Those are my friends,” said Spike. “Super friendly, I promise.”

Greg waved. Ed didn’t even try to smile, tense.

“There’s no rush,” Spike assured her. “We’ll only go out when you’re ready.”

The girl cupped her free hand around her mouth. Spike dipped down so she could whisper in his ear. He listened with a furrowed brow.

“That’s no problem,” he said, looking concerned for the first time. “Here. You okay if I carry you out? It’s Laura, right?”

Laura nodded and lifted her arms. Ed chuffed a fond sound. Greg understood the feeling, watching with hooded, maudlin eyes as Spike swung Laura up onto his hip. The way her button nose hid in his shoulder.

“Watch your head,” said Spike. He set a protective hand on the back of Laura’s red tresses.

Together, they emerged into the sunlight. An EMT and Child Services waited off to the side, but even they seemed to understand the need to not break this moment—

The first male hands ever to treat this little girl kindly.

Spike’s touch was the first to help, not harm, she had probably ever known.

Laura whispered something else in Spike’s ear while he walked them to the gurney.

He chuckled. It reached all the way to his laugh lines. “I’m sure they can rustle up some cheeseburgers for a nice lady like you.”

Laura didn’t smile exactly, but over Spike’s shoulder, both Ed and Greg spotted the precise moment the whites of her eyes shrunk because she’d relaxed. Years vanished off her face.

“Ed,” said Greg. “How’s he been since…?”

Neither took their eyes off the poignant scene but Greg knew without looking that Ed had shaken his head. “Totally normal. Professional and easy going as usual.”

This did not comfort Greg.

“I’d buy it,” said Ed, “If Sam didn’t keep stopping by to check on him.”

_ Ah. Yet another red flag. _

“He did good today, Eddie.”

Ed reached up and patted Greg’s hand. “He sure did. I can tell you one thing—that’s the first time I’ve seen him laugh in weeks.”

Spike handed Laura off to the EMT with one last stroke of her knotted hair. “She says she can’t stand without falling, so check her legs.”

The EMT thanked Spike and hooked Laura up to a blood pressure cuff. “You have let go, honey.”

Laura released Spike with a sloppy kiss to his cheek.

Spike, bewildered, gave her a confused half smile. He pressed a business card into Laura’s grimy palm after squeezing it. “You call if you need anything, got it? Anything at all. Even if it’s just to talk when you’re lonely.”

Laura nodded and let the medics pull a blanket over her.

Spike jogged back to the older men, gaze fixed on Laura being wheeled away. “Sweet kid, huh?”

Greg mapped the chocolate eyes of his boy, the ruffled mop, the shiny spot of Laura’s drying kiss. A candid face graced by long lashes and a bubbling grin.

Greg wrapped an arm around Spike’s shoulders. “Got that right.”


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Don’t patronize me.” It was Spike’s turn to redden. He grit his teeth.
> 
> It threw Greg years into the past, meeting this rookie kid with a spark plug temper ready to throw fire whenever the wind blew, play acting to cover up all that fear. How long it took Greg and Ed to realize how _alone_ Spike was.

The next time Greg visited the station, it was _teeming_ with people.

SRU Teams One through Four were about to embark on a huge drug bust. Biggest of the year. Greg became the most popular person of them all when he held up a pile of Timmies.

“Double-doubles, anyone?”

He was swarmed by cops half-geared up. A few held file folders and photos between their teeth to grab at the coffee with both hands.

Leah took a sip with an obscene groan. “You’re an angel. I’m putting you in my will.”

Greg snorted. “It’s just coffee.”

“It’s a _five hour_ stake out,” Jules countered, chewing at the tab of her lid in the usual ablution. “And it’s one in the morning. Coffee equals success, boss.”

“Alright, alright, you vultures. Part the way for the men’s locker room. I promised Ed a cup.”

Jules dutifully shooed rookie cops away so Greg could limp to the door.

The locker room was mostly empty, everyone congregated near the briefing room. Greg was about to knock, but a pair of voices stayed his hand. 

He didn’t find Ed or even Wordy, who was also in on this bust.

Instead, Greg rounded the mirror to see Sam on the bench and Spike seated on the floor. Greg tried to assess the atmosphere without being noticed. They hadn’t seen him enter, still in the shadowy recesses of the entryway. 

“You promised,” Sam was in the middle of pleading.

“And I kept it.” Spike rubbed at his scar. “I’m handling it.”

Sam’s nose bunched. “You call _this _handling it?”

“It’s just…it’s just some fatigue. The monitoring system I installed should help.”

“You’ve been sleeping in your car!”

Spike scowled. “I never should have told you that.”

“Spike, this can’t go on. End it or I will.”

Head whipping up, Spike’s big eyes locked on Sam. “What’s that supposed to mean? Sam, you can’t tell the team.”

“Hell I can’t.”

“Sam, _please_. You never should have found out in the first place.”

“Is that supposed to make me feel better?” Sam’s hiss made Spike flinch. Breath exhaling in a false start, Sam forced his body language into something loose and open. “Sorry. Hey, hey.”

His hand was bigger than Spike’s, as was the rest of him. The lines of Sam’s body sharpened and softened at the same time. Sharpened into hyper awareness, aimed at gauging his friend. Soft to remain unthreatening.

Sam placed that hand on Spike’s knee, the one drawn up to his chest. “We’re at the SRU and you’re safe. There’s about a dozen officers out there who would sooner shoot that man between the eyes than let him touch you.”

For all the stereotypes about Sam Braddock being hot headed, he waited the entire sixty seconds it took for Spike to nod, without a single word of complaint. 

“How’s your back?”

Spike shrugged. “Still bruised. Look, I’m really—”

“If you apologize to me one more time, I’m hiding your remote control drone.”

Spike rolled his eyes. “Heard that one before.”

“Who do you think pranked you the last time?”

“You,” Spike chided. “Because surveillance caught you breaking into inventory.”

Sam sobered. “I meant what I said, Spike. I don’t regret running down the hall on Tuesday when I saw what was happening. If anything, I’m glad your car was broken so I could give you a lift, to be there. Fend him off.”

“I didn’t want anyone to know.”

“I’m just trying to help.”

Spike’s voice was small. “I know.”

“You’re smarter than this.”

Spike sighed into his hands. “I know.”

Maybe it was Spike in his tired slump against the lockers, dark circles under his eyes. Maybe it was the lingering argument in the air. Maybe it was Sam curled into such a guarding stance.

Whatever the culprit, Greg’s mind understood in a thunderclap, just a touch. He set down the last coffee tray.

Spike jolted at the noise and Sam stood. “Who’s there?”

“Just me.” Greg held up his now empty hand. “Came with coffee. Mind if I sit?”

Greg asked both of them, but his eyes were on Sam.

Sam—who’d placed himself in between Greg and Spike.

Greg outranked Sam, by a large margin.

In this moment, it didn’t matter one iota. For Sam was, self-appointed, in charge of Spike’s safety right now and if he wanted to challenge Greg on it, Greg couldn’t do a thing to stop him.

Thankfully, Sam just nodded.

Greg sat next to him on the end, so Sam was still a buffer between them. Spike watched with forlorn eyes.

“Well hullo,” said Greg, trying out a smile. “I’ve missed seeing your ugly mug around.”

He risked losing his limb to reach out and ruffle Spike’s hair. At last, Spike grinned. So tiny Greg could barely see it.

Spike’s nose twitched. “You brought coffee?”

Greg retrieved the tray and held it out. “Double-double? All I got.”

“Perfect. I need it if we’re going to get through tonight.”

Sam watched him sip it, caring and frustrated. “Yes, you do.”

For a little while, a peaceful nursery of a moment, all three men just sipped their coffee and savoured the company. The familiarity, the quiet.

Their bodies touched, casual, Spike’s extended leg against Greg’s foot and Sam’s boot brushing Spike’s. Greg’s arm jostled by Sam. Their shoulders bumping.

Greg tapped Spike’s knee. “You okay, buddy?”

When Spike opened his mouth, Sam directed a scathing look his way. An older brother’s warning. “Don’t lie to him.”

Spike met his eyes, a silent conversation Greg couldn’t even begin to read. Then Spike ducked his head. He fiddled with the lid of his coffee.

“Boss,” he asked, “Do you think I’m weak?”

Sam turned red, sliding forward.

Greg intercepted with a hand on Sam’s bicep. It was steel cable tight and Greg clenched it, a silent command. To his wonder, Sam obeyed, going slack.

Spike hadn’t seen any of this, head still down, and Greg was grateful for it.

“Spike,” he said, knuckling under the young man’s chin. Reluctant, he looked up. “Spike…you are one of the strongest people I know. End of story.”

“Don’t patronize me.” It was Spike’s turn to redden. He grit his teeth.

It threw Greg years into the past, meeting this rookie kid with a spark plug temper ready to throw fire whenever the wind blew, play acting to cover up all that fear. How long it took Greg and Ed to realize how _alone_ Spike was.

“I’m not,” said Greg. “You’ve overcome years of hardship, standing your ground, and you have more compassion in your pinky toe than most cops I know.”

Spike scanned Greg’s face, searched for any deception. Greg couldn’t help cupping the man’s cheek, just for a second. Sam nodded along, both to Greg’s words and the telegraphed message. 

“You’re our wunderkind,” Greg whispered. “And you have nothing to be ashamed of.”

Spike squared his shoulders. “I’m handling it.”

“Okay, then.”

Sam whirled on him, mouth ajar. “Boss, you can’t seriously—”

Greg continued to address Spike. “But you tell us when you’re in over your head, when it gets too much. That’s what we’re here for.”

A mulish tilt appeared in Sam’s mouth. Spike eyed it. He watched the entrances too but he hid that one better. Greg wondered when he’d gotten so jumpy.

“I…I’m…” Spike stretched out his other leg so that it huddled up between Greg’s. “I think maybe I am already.”

Sam sighed. “Finally. Took you long enough.”

“But if I let you help now…” Spike scrubbed at his hair. “Then it’s…it’s like I’ve lost.”

Greg tutted, grabbing Spike’s fingernails away from his scalp. “Needing help is not a weakness.”

“No, it’s not that.” Spike shook his head in a violent motion. Sam made a low sound in his throat. “It’s me. I _can _do something—it would be so easy—and I’m just…I don’t know why…”

More confused than ever, Greg didn’t have any context for this struggle. However, he felt that gossamer thread tug at his heart. To see his family suffering so horribly.

Sam, riled by that same instinct, clasped Spike’s shoulder. “I get it, Spike. With your past…”

“No. _No_.” Spike’s tone was vehement but his eyes were bright. “Why can’t I—”

“Wheels up in ten!” Ed bounded into the locker room, all black gear from head to toe. “Is this coffee for me? Thanks, Greg.”

Only when Ed chewed open the tab, just like Jules, did he slow down and notice the corner huddle going on. His body went on alert. “Everybody doing alright?”

A beat of hesitation followed.

Then Spike levered himself up to his feet. “Ready to go, Ed. I’ve got that extra chemical analysis kit in the truck for any drugs we find.”

“Perfect.” Ed’s eyes did one more loop of each face. “Let’s move.”

“Be careful tonight,” Sam murmured.

Spike swatted his knee with a glove. “You too. And I’m always careful.”

Once Spike and Ed were out of earshot, Sam exhaled through his nose. “Careful? Yeah right.”

Greg couldn’t help but agree with this sentiment.

“Before you ask,” said the team leader. He stood to throw on a vest. “I’m keeping an eye on his situation.”

Greg hummed. “I see. I don’t know what Spike is facing, but I trust you.”

Sam’s motions slowed. He looked Greg dead in the eye. “It’s not a what.”

A spear of something white hot tore up the flesh of Greg’s rib cage. Dangerous. Something that overrode his disciplined mind.

Greg fought with a snarl that wanted to work up onto his face.

Sam’s pinched expression matched.

Suddenly Greg couldn’t stand it. This sidelined position when it came to his boy. He wobbled into a half standing position and got right up in Sam’s face.

“Sam…is his safety compromised? Why is he keeping secrets?”

Sam didn’t react to the fierce whisper, except to suck in a crackling breath. Eyes shiny and too open.

“I can’t tell you, boss,” he whispered back. “And I’m worried he won’t until it’s too late.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Is chewing open your Timmies lid a normal thing for everyone else or just my corner of Canada? Everyone I know does it. Yet another of the world's great mysteries.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> There was no tactical way out that didn’t involve one of them dying. They were outgunned and outnumbered.
> 
> The sher-click of Spike’s automatic being loaded—aimed _at_ him—was such a wrong sound that Ed felt the grinding of it deep inside his marrow.

Nobody ever thinks about the calls that go smoothly. Without a hitch. Bam, open and shut.

Tonight was one such case and it set everyone’s hackles on edge. The last time a massive drug bust like this went down was the night Wordy’s diagnosis came out, when the leader of said op almost killed someone.

So yeah, this easy arrest had everyone squinting in suspicion. 

Ed’s first coherent thought when Jules shrieked in his ear was, _of course. Bloody of course_.

“Bomb!” She called again while running out of the house, like they didn’t hear her the first three times. “In the basement!”

Spike perked up from cuffing number twenty-three of the forty drug cartel members busted that night. The sun was just cresting over the suburb complex, the meth lab hiding in plain sight as a pharmacy and this house, just down the block, being one of the selling stations.

Ed felt a bone-deep weariness threaten to overtake him. “Spike?”

“I’m on it!”

Ed clapped the tech’s shoulder on the way by. “I’ll back you up. Jules, keep the perimeter locked down.”

“Copy that!”

Her barked orders at uniforms standing around galvanized everyone into action.

Spike grabbed only a pair of pliers, consulting a photo on his phone Jules had uploaded of the device. “Should be easy, Ed. Especially with the house empty already. Just a simple timer bomb. Compressed air hooked up to a detonator and shrapnel.”

“Meant to take down the house?” Ed wondered aloud, while jogging after Spike’s gangly profile. “In case we showed up like this?”

“I don’t think so.” Spike checked the entryway for hostiles, just in case. Clear. “Looks like a watchdog, actually.”

Ed canted his head while trundling down the basement stairs. “Watchdog?”

“Yeah, you know. To blow up and stop anyone from finding something valuable.”

“Must have missed some of their drug stash.”

Any reply started on Spike’s lips went out the window when he knelt beside the bomb. The basement was unfinished, concrete flooring and spacious interior. The bomb, squat and narrow, sat near the far wall.

“This place is bare bones. Nothing in sight.” Ed kept his rifle up. “What would they be guarding down here?”

“I don’t know,” Spike admitted. “But we don’t have a lot of time. And I don’t like you being downrange.”

“Tough.” Ed’s jaw shifted. “I’m not leaving you alone in a drug house.”

Spike glared at him with an indulgent grin. “Ed. The house is empty. Stop going all Bruce Willis on me.”

“I’m bald, what can I say.”

Spike snorted, sorting through all the wires. He unclipped his rifle and set it down an arm’s length away.

“Three minutes. Should be plenty of time. No dummy wires that I can see…”

Ed ignored his muttering to aim his rifle at the basement stairs—just in case—and curse the dim lighting. Only one grimy bulb illuminated the room, no windows or lamps.

He distantly heard Spike’s “bomb defused! Let me just get these canisters disconnected” but didn’t take his eyes away from the only entrance to the basement.

Ed counted his breathing, three heartbeats to inhale, four or more on the way out. They’d done well today, everything going smoothly and other than this bomb, totally to plan. Sam had his team down the street, cataloguing evidence in the pharmacy.

So why did his stomach continue to winch?

Only at this conscious observation did Ed realize Spike had gone silent. Totally silent.

Hairs raised on Ed’s arms. Keeping his rifle trained forward, he turned his head. His breathing faltered.

Spike was frozen in place on his knees, the whites of his eyes the brightest thing in this murky basement. His rifle was no longer on the floor, and his sidearm had been removed.

Both were aimed at Spike’s head by a ring of drug runners.

Ed looked wildly around for where they may have gotten in, only to see a hidden door, very small, behind what appeared to be an electrical panel. It led to a hidey-hole and duffel bags of cash.

A quick count revealed five men surrounding them, soundless in their approach.

One stepped forward now, all muscle and a wicked smile. His teeth were pearly white and his shirt looked expensive.

Ed _knew_ there had to be two leaders of this cartel. It was too well organized.

“Good morning, officer.” The man stepped so close that the bridge of his nose ghosted against Ed’s gun. Barrel dead between his eyes. “I’m sure it is obvious to a skilled man like yourself that if you shoot me, it’s lights out for your friend.”

Spike didn’t react and pride flared through Ed.

The man hissed something in low Italian. Spike’s eyes widened. The gun prodded against his scar in a jaunty motion that sent Ed’s heart leaping into his throat.

“Get up,” the men snapped, and Spike did. His legs were steady but the darting of his eyes was not.

“There we go,” said the leader. “Now I can see both our visitors face-to-face. Glad my little doorbell worked like a charm. The perfect bait for the perfect leverage to escape this police net.”

He gestured to the bomb and Spike asked a question, also in Italian.

The man laughed and cooed something. Spike’s eyes hardened. Ed didn’t know what it meant but he tensed anyway. Seeing Spike, unarmed, didn’t help.

“How about I just shoot you,” Ed reasoned. “You’re as vulnerable as it gets right now.”

“That’s true.” The man wagged his head, an exaggerated, contemplative gesture. “You could probably kill what, two, maybe three of us?”

Then the man’s face dropped and Ed’s stomach along with it. A harsh murmur came out in place of the playful tone. “But no matter how you strategize this, officer, he still dies.”

Though the man pointed at Spike, Ed kept his eyes forward. The man was right and they all knew it. There was no tactical way out that didn’t involve one of them dying. They were outgunned and outnumbered.

The _sher-click_ of Spike’s automatic being loaded—aimed _at him—_was such a wrong sound that Ed felt the grinding of it deep inside his marrow.

How had the tail end of a record-setting bust gone so wrong? Was Jules sending in backup now? Had Sam arrived on scene after their cleanup?

Then Ed noticed a black box in the lead man’s hand. He didn’t need Spike to recognize what it was.

_Signal jammer. No one can hear us. We’re completely on our own._

Wound up with such severity, glower hooked on this lead man, Ed didn’t notice it at first. A faint touch.

“It’s your choice, officer,” the man continued. “Come quietly with us and we’ll let you go at the first empty block. We just want to leave without police following.”

“With us as hostages,” Ed deadpanned.

“Let’s not use unsavoury words.” The man chuckled and somehow that was worse. “Insurance. I like insurance better.”

There it was again, more insistent this time. Trying very hard not to be noticed but enough pressure to finally make Ed pay attention.

A dull squeezing at a localized point on Ed’s right shoulder. There was a ripple, individual tendrils of pressure that extended towards his spine.

What—?

For how keen Ed’s senses were right now, it took him a moment to label the feeling:

Spike’s hand balled up in his shirt.

His fingers were curling into the sweater, the few inches not covered by Ed’s bulletproof vest. Ed blinked. Spike’s bare hand was clutching Ed’s shirt in a hesitant, slightly shaking grip.

It took even longer for Ed’s brain to dial from ‘Leader, ready to kill someone’ to ‘Friend, who can read his friends like an open book.’

When it did, Ed’s brain shorted out.

_Spike is scared. Spike…Spike is _scared_._

Scratch that—

Spike was _petrified._

Sniper breathing went up in flames. Ed hurled the proverbial book of protocol off into the sun. The instant Spike’s fear truly set into Ed’s bones, he jerked into action.

Like a mother hen sitting on her chicks, Ed backed up, rushing Spike with him, and pinned them both to the wall. Ed was just tall enough that he overlapped Spike from almost all angles.

“Ed? Ed!” Spike’s alarmed tone matched the gang’s eyes, taken aback and whispering to each other.

Ed tuned it all out. His world came down to the hand still in his sweater, searching for safety, and guns poised in their direction.

A strange noise resonated out of Ed’s chest. A grated panting, sharpened with a dissonant edge that, on a lesser trained man, would have been the start of a growl.

The hand tightened. Spike’s other one tapped at Ed’s gun arm. He breathed hard enough to rival Ed. “What are you—”

“Isn’t this poignant?” The lead man had stopped smiling. This slimy superiority made Ed bare his teeth. “The team of angels and their last stand.”

He held out his hand and Spike’s sidearm was placed in it. He made a show of inspecting the clip and chamber.

“You’re at the disadvantage now.” Ed barely recognized his own voice. Granite. Uncompromising. A little breathless.

So tightly pressed to each other, Ed felt Spike stiffen. Felt the pulsing at an artery somewhere in Spike’s wrist galloping out of control.

The need to comfort, to check for injury, reared its head but Ed knew he couldn’t until this was over. He saw no way out.

It didn’t matter. If he went down, so be it. Protecting his team eclipsed all else.

“How do you feel about your chances?” asked the cartel leader. He loaded a round with a sharp snap. “_Officer_?”

The man barely had time to whip it up before he collapsed in a spray of red.

A hole wept in the bulls eye of his forehead, easy as you please. Ed gawked. He hadn’t fired.

The drug runners cried out and one brought up Spike’s rifle.

_Wha-BANG!_


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Why didn’t you tell us, figlio? Who is he?”
> 
> “I can’t.” The drips were faster than Spike’s determined hands. He thumbed at the tears—so did Greg—but the relentless trickle kept coming. “I just can’t, Greg. I’d let you down!”
> 
> A thunderbolt of shock struck the two older men.

“All _five_ were found dead?”

Greg couldn’t wrap his head around that one. Nor, in fact, why he was here.

He said as much.

Holleran sighed, a heavy one. “Truth be told, it all looks fine on paper. Staten and SIU released them thirty minutes ago. But I’ve been going over the report and something doesn’t sit well with me.”

Of all people, Greg could relate. He lifted a brow. “Gut feeling?”

“Something like that.”

“Must be a hell of one for me to be in here twice in five days. Doesn’t sit well with me either.”

Holleran didn’t fall for the attempt at levity. He shook his head. “They’re telling the truth, of course—Spike grabbed Ed’s sidearm off his leg after he’d been disarmed and shot two of the gun runners. Ed shot the rest when they took a swing at Spike with the gas canisters.”

Flipping through the proffered file folder and case notes, Greg had to look away and take a breath. Reading about the danger they faced without him would never get easier.

Holleran just watched the emotions play across his face, not interrupting.

“Signal jammer?” Greg finally asked.

“We found it in the dead man’s hand, the secondary leader. Thankfully Callaghan—sorry, Braddock; I still haven’t adjusted to that—got suspicious about their silence or she might never have thought to check before guns started blazing. They walked right into a trap.”

Greg noticed something else. “Italian?”

“Hmm?”

Tapping the report, Greg couldn’t make the pieces fit either. “Spike said the man spoke Italian before he died.”

“Of course,” said Holleran. “The crime ring was made up of lots of immigrants, everything from Mexicans, Haitans, Germans, Italians, Japanese—you name it. If they were willing to work, the cartel hired them.”

“Did Spike translate _what_ the man said?”

Holleran shrugged. “No. Spike said they were just taunts, nothing substantial.”

Reading it again, Greg had to admit everything looked kosher. SIU certainly wouldn’t have any reason to worry. The two men had been in a fight for their lives, direct threat.

But Greg watched Spike and Ed sit at the briefing table, through the single door left open, and they were much, much too antsy.

It didn’t escape Greg’s notice that they’d chosen the same side of the table, facing the door, backs to the wall.

“Something happened down there,” said Holleran, sotto voce. “I don’t know what, and clearly it doesn’t matter in a professional sense as it didn’t impede their abilities. But I figured you had a right to know.”

This was a personal issue. Something Holleran had brought up with _him_, not Staten.

“The right to worry.”

“Come again?”

Greg pointed in at Spike. “It’s something Lew used to say. That all friends and family in a tight knit group have a basic right to worry.”

“Before I met your team everything made sense,” said Holleran, surprising Greg. “You don’t fit in the textbooks, you know that? Even Toth admitted that.”

“Is that a profiler joke?”

Holleran at last cracked a laugh. “I mean it. You can psych profile all the live-long day, but you six…you’re in a world of your own, Parker. I can’t even fathom the fluidity and nonverbal cues you’ve built up to be so effective.”

Greg laughed a little too, his more of a helpless sound. “There’s no mystery in it, Commander. It’s real empathy, real love.”

“Beyond professional working relations,” said Holleran with a knowing look.

_ That’s my kid and my best friend in there. Sue me. _

Greg didn’t say this out loud but Holleran smiled, reminding Greg that he was SRU’s worst kept secret.

“Thanks for helping out. And for the coffee this morning.”

“Don’t have to ask me twice,” said Greg. “Just give us some privacy.”

Holleran nodded. “Mics and cameras are off. Everyone’s gone home, exhausted, from the bust.”

Even Winnie had been spelled off by Peter.

Spike and Ed wore a huge slice of that exhaustion on their faces when Greg finally limped his way in. He activated the door closed.

“Can we go home now?” asked Spike. It was carefully neutral in tone.

“Whenever you want,” said Greg, taking a seat at the head of the table so he was perpendicular to them both. “You were cleared with flying colours. I’m not your co-worker anymore. I just wanted to ask how you are.”

In a twist of the usual routine, Spike looked at _Ed_ to answer that.

Greg played along, brows up. “Ed?”

“We’re fine, Greg. Just got ambushed with a planted bomb, that’s all. No way of predicting that.”

“Of course not. I’m not asking how you felt about the call.”

Spike squinted at him. “Yes you are.”

Greg rolled his chair closer and only _then_ did he catch what he should have from the beginning—Spike was wearing Ed’s sweater. It hung rumpled on his shoulders, sleeves empty, like someone had thrown it over him. This left Ed only in a T-shirt.

“No,” said Greg, once he’d recovered from the implications of this. “I mean how do you feel about almost getting shot?”

Ed stared at the table while Spike shrugged. “I get shot at every day. Novelty has worn off, boss.”

“Do you usually get threatened while unarmed?” Greg pushed.

Spike conceded this with a nod. “Okay, not so normal. No harm though, really. We’re injury-free for once.”

Greg eyed the fading bruise on Spike’s chin.

“It’s my fault,” Ed blurted suddenly. “I ignored good training for emotion.”

Spike’s jaw dropped. “Are you kidding me? _I’m_ the one who…”

He puffed out an angry breath and put his elbows on the table, hands clasped over his mouth. He closed his eyes for a beat, then opened them to look at Greg.

“I’m sorry I’ve been so flighty recently. The…incident…on Tuesday with Sam shook me up. Everything will go back to normal soon, don’t worry.”

Ed _finally_ looked up to pin Spike with an achy kind of expression, un-shuttered, resolved.

“You did nothing wrong today,” Ed breathed. “Nothing at all. Your reaction was human, Spike.”

Spike avoided Ed’s eyes by tucking his head.

Ed palmed the bowed crown. “No, Spike. Look at me. _Please_.”

Greg kept a close eye on what was unfolding but let it play out. It didn’t look like the first time Ed had initiated physical contact with Spike, despite SIU protocol.

It took a moment of internal struggle before Spike could obey.

Ed burrowed a thumb through the brown locks. “I haven’t seen you that panicked in a long time and it scared me. I reacted. I should know better but _you _have nothing to apologize for.”

“You need to trust me as a teammate,” said Spike, in an anguished note Greg knew he wouldn’t have used if he hadn’t been so tired. “To have your back.”

Ed’s eyes got big this time. “Trust you? Spike—you singlehandedly saved my life today. You kept your head when I didn’t. I’d walk through fire if you told me to and trust that you’d keep me from burning.”

Bookended by the two older men, Spike seemed to lose some of his stoicism. He took measured breaths through his nose to stave off a growing sheen across his eyes. He was one tap away from unraveling.

So Greg kept his voice very low. “That fear…would it have something to do with who’s hurting you?”

Ed’s eyes whipped to Greg. “_Excuse_ me?”

“Spike,” Greg whispered. “If someone is harassing you, you need to tell us.”

“No,” said Spike. “I don’t.”

Ed went from pale to purple faster than expected. “Harass_ing_ you—this has happened more than once?”

“Your fight or flight response is closer to the surface,” said Greg, choosing to ignore Eddie for the moment. “You’ve haven’t felt safe for a while, have you?”

“It would be so easy,” said Spike. He swiped an angry hand across his cheek and looked startled to see it come away wet. “To just shove him off, pin him like I do with subjects all the time. I can see the charting of it in my head but when he yells in my face like that I can’t move. I’m…I remember…”

A devastated look passed between Ed and Greg. Spike didn’t have to elaborate, for they both knew how many memories circled around that kind of behaviour.

“Ahh, Spike.” Ed groaned. “Come here—”

Ed cradled the back of Spike’s head in the crook of his elbow and tugged him closer. Their foreheads were nearly touching and Spike shuddered out a sigh.

The sound was unacceptable.

Greg responded to it viscerally, rolling so close their knees pressed together. He twisted to meet Spike’s eyes.

“Why didn’t you tell us, _figlio_? Who is he?”

“I can’t.” The drips were faster than Spike’s determined hands. He thumbed at the tears—so did Greg—but the relentless trickle kept coming. “I just can’t, Greg. I’d let you down!”

A thunderbolt of shock struck the two older men. _Let us down?_

“You’re safe here,” Ed whispered, over and over again. His right hand created a seat belt across Spike’s chest. “We’ve got you. You’re _safe_ with us, you hear me?”

“I know,” Spike croaked. “That’s why I slept in my car in the SRU lot two nights last week, because I knew he would find me at home.”

This elicited matching angry-upset cries, muffled for Spike’s sake, from both Ed and Greg. Greg touched what little of Spike Ed wasn’t wrapped around. This turned out to be his hand.

“It’s so stupid,” said Spike. “I’m a police officer and I can’t even use that in every day life, when it counts.”

“You are not stupid,” Ed whispered. “And you could never let us down. Whatever you’re involved in, just tell us.”

“No!” Spike seemed to draw on some reserve well of stubbornness. He pulled away and Ed let him, hands up, visible. “I’ll figure this out.”

“Spike…be rational.” Greg hadn’t let go of his hand. “If this man is repeatedly showing up at your apartment, and it’s escalated to physical violence, the best thing to do would be report him.”

Spike slowed down, his wiry frame uncoiling. Swimming eyes gazed back at Greg. “You think I haven’t threatened him with that?”

“It’s clearly not working,” said Greg. And all at once, a few of these symptoms made sense. “Spike, have you ever heard of adrenaline poisoning?”

Ed’s face went on like a light bulb too. “He means your body’s safety mechanisms are overtaxed, Spike. A constant state of fear, like POWs get.”

Spike sagged, eyes lined. “I’m not a POW.”

“No,” said Greg, patient. “But a state of hyper alertness—constant, in your case—can lead to a lesser version. Stress, basically. Some people call it adrenal fatigue.”

Spike considered this. “You’re just throwing medical jargon at me in the hopes I’ll tell you.”

“Maybe a little,” Greg admitted. “But I think the principle stands. You’re going to burn out, and soon. Don’t you want us there for the fallout? This can’t go on.”

“I have to fight my own battles,” Spike insisted.

Ed’s face did a twist and it was the closest to hysteria he usually got. Greg felt that same desperation, the situation slipping away. They were losing him.

“I’m sorry.” Spike wiped his eyes one last time. “I wish I could tell you. I can’t. Please, I just can’t.”

And with that, he stood up and walked away. Greg listened to the hiss of the door, felt the warmth in his hand where it had enveloped Spike’s. The cooling of it sent a jitter down Greg’s neck.

“Someone _hurt_ Spike and I didn’t know about it?” Ed demanded.

Greg nodded. “I overheard he and Sam talking. I think someone shoved Spike against a wall the day Holleran busted them in the office. Whoever this man is, he doesn’t care about leaving bruises.”

Ed’s eyes frosted. “I’m going to kill him.”


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “How are things with Winnie?”
> 
> “Great. Getting pretty serious.”
> 
> Spike sobered a little at these words and Wordy paused, surprised.
> 
> “Hey!” He clapped Spike’s arm. “I don’t know if you’re aware of how romantic relationships work but that’s good news.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I just realized that this is the 500th fic for the Flashpoint fandom! Go figure!

Paperwork.

So much paperwork.

Gone were the days of verbal sit reps and debriefings. Now it was suspect reports, crime statistics, arrest claims, financials…the list went on for miles. Without field work to break up the monotony, discouragement, boredom, set in like a match to hay.

Thus, Wordy was more than happy to see a familiar pair of Converse pull up to his desk and take him away from molehills of file folders.

“Spike!” Wordy beamed. He pushed off to his feet, pleased he didn’t need the cane today. “What’s shakin’, squirt?”

Spike wore plain clothes and it was late. Judging by the text Ed had sent earlier, they’d gotten off shift a while ago.

His face did a curious slide when Wordy opened his arms. As if Spike was an elastic band that someone had snipped, going lax.

Wordy tempered the slight, perpetual shake in his hands, knowing how it made people uncomfortable. He wasn’t quite fast enough when he wrapped his arms around Spike.

However, rather than being startled, Spike felt the Parkinson’s tremor and deflated against Wordy’s chest. If Wordy didn’t know any better, he’d say the man was shaking a tiny bit himself.

Spike snaked an arm around Wordy’s neck and Wordy smiled, gooey with affection.

Spike was a slight contradiction, from day one that Wordy met him. Endlessly tactile and starving for affection, Spike also hated being confined or restrained, thanks to years of intimidation by his father.

Because of this, Spike was never the close-to-body hostage during training drills. Because of this, Wordy always kept his arms loose, so Spike could step back whenever he wanted.

An alarm flicked to life in Wordy’s mind when Spike took a good while longer to let go than usual. He was a popped balloon in Wordy’s arms, quite literally. He’d lost weight. The ballpoints of each rib bone poked outward.

Wordy squeezed him harder, an ache throbbing in his chest, and Spike’s heart rate slowed after a moment.

“What brings you to my neck of the woods on a Wednesday night?” Wordy asked, once they’d parted. Spike sat in the ‘perp’s chair’ beside the desk. “Good work on the bust Saturday, by the way. Disarmed that bomb and saved Ed all in one.”

Spike rolled his eyes. “Gossip gets around fast.”

“Sure does.” Wordy lightly slapped the kid’s knee. “Who do you think planned this bust?”

“So I have you to thank for the bomb and the secret room with all those drug runners?”

“Hey.” Wordy pointed at Spike’s cheeky smirk. “Even our CI on the inside didn’t know about that one.”

Spike did a ‘ta-da’ motion with his hands. “Just another day at work. No one got shot, which is a miracle unto itself.”

“You’re telling me. Plenty of exchanged fire, but no major injuries on our side.”

Spike hummed in agreement. His eyes were half lidded and thinking about it, Wordy noted how at ease he seemed compared to Saturday at the briefing.

“Have you come to enjoy the riveting nuances of arrest forms with me?” Wordy asked.

Fan lines around Spike’s eyes deepened. “Maybe I did. Guy can’t drop in on his MVP pal at Guns ‘n Gangs?”

The mental klaxon got louder but Wordy just flung out an arm. “Mi casa and all that. I love it when you guys visit—though it’s never often enough.”

“Hence why I came to put that to rights.”

Wordy laughed. “Hence?”

“Shut up. I’m tired.”

And he really did help with reports, chatting for almost an hour while they both stapled and stamped warrants and arrest forms. Wordy got to hear about Spike and Sam's latest quest to surprise Jules and Wordy happily shared the story of his daughter's latest misadventure in her swimming class. It was cozy, quiet with the late hour.

Though, as predicted, Spike drifted over to Wordy’s computer around the hour mark. “Running slow, you say?”

“I called IT last week but they haven’t been over to see why my email’s so buggy.”

Wordy stood while he talked, automatically switching seats like the old days. Spike settled into Wordy’s chair and clacked away with those lightning fingers. His eyes darted across lines of backdoor code.

It left him a little exposed and Wordy took the opportunity to study Spike’s wrinkled brow and a barely-there bruise on his chin. How he refused to recline against the seat back.

Ed had mentioned something about a ‘personal problem’ between the team, last time they had coffee, but Wordy rarely got to hear details.

Spike suddenly checked his watch. Even deeper relief swept across his features.

“Someplace you gotta be?” Wordy asked. He whapped the stapler.

“Nope.” Spike sighed, a comfortable sound. “Not at all. My night’s free.”

“How are things with Winnie?”

“Great. Getting pretty serious.”

He sobered a little at these words and Wordy paused, surprised.

“Hey!” He clapped Spike’s arm. “I don’t know if you’re aware of how romantic relationships work but that’s _good_ news.”

Spike joined in the teasing laughter. “Be nice to the guy who just boosted your email speed.”

“Wait, really?” Wordy craned around to watch Spike send a sample email and how it zinged without a hitch. No strange gaps in the message text or wrong sender errors. “Thanks, Spike! Should’ve called you in the first place.”

“I’m better than IT,” said Spike with a wink.

Wordy shook his head, forever impressed by the tech’s prodigious skills. “I’m glad you’re on our side. Imagine if you were a hacker we had to stop.”

“You’d catch me in a minute,” Spike deflected.

“Oh, I don’t know.” Wordy’s brows shot up. “You could give top government security agencies a run for their money even half asleep.”

An immobility settled over Spike’s limbs. His eyes glanced quickly at Wordy, like a teacher had caught him passing notes, and licked his lips.

“Wordy?” he asked, quiet.

At the paper-thin tone, Wordy set down his pen and stapler. “Yeah, bud?”

Spike’s eyes fixed on the desk, tops of his ears red. “How do you know which to choose when it’s between your head or your heart?”

Wordy rocked forward. He was silent for a stretch and Spike waited him out. Some of Ed’s concerned comments at their last lunch began to make sense.

_ Spike really isn’t acting like himself. _

“That’s a tough one.” Wordy matched Spike’s volume. “I’m probably the expert on that, huh? Had to leave you guys to save you, even though I wanted to just keep going until I couldn’t. That decision is the hardest I have _ever_ made.”

Spike still wouldn’t meet his eyes, an echo of his rookie days, that maybe-a-bit-on-the-spectrum-but-never-diagnosed behaviour.

“We miss you every day, Wordy.”

_ Dear Spike. _ Wordy exhaled a chuckle for this endearing kid. “The feeling is very mutual, I assure you.”

This time, Wordy resisted the urge to touch, sensing a bubble of nerves. A serrated quality to the coil of the tech’s shoulders, the fist in his lap.

“But how did you _know_?” Spike insisted. “This won’t end until I make that decision but I…”

“What won’t end?”

Spike lost some colour. “Never mind.”

“Spike.” Wordy nudged Spike’s wrist when he didn’t reply. “Bud, you’re as selfless as they come. Whatever decision you make is right. Sometimes our hearts override our heads and that’s okay.”

In little feints and starts, Spike’s eyes shifted to Wordy. “It is?”

Wordy weighed the gamble in his head and decided to play. He squeezed the nape of Spike’s neck, a hovering grasp that pressed just enough to feel an artery beating.

Spike melted, like he’d been holding himself up and now could finally let go. He leaned into the C-collar of Wordy’s hand, briefly closed his eyes. Wordy noted that along with the other oddities of this visit.

“It’s okay,” said Wordy, “Because you always do what’s best for the people you love. This time will be no different.”

Spike blinked a few times. He mulled that one over for so long that Wordy’s shift ended, but he didn’t move and neither did his hand. It was a comfortable lull, borne of years working together.

“Thanks, Wordy.”

“Any time,” Wordy murmured back. “Seriously, you can drop by whenever you want. I’m a desk jockey now.”

Spike grinned, not quite reaching his eyes. He pulled away and, after checking a strange camera program on his phone, slung on his coat. “I think I’m going to head out. It’s okay to go home now.”

Wordy blanked for a moment. Not ‘I’m ready to go home,’ not ‘it’s time to go home.’

No—‘_It’s okay_ to go home now.’ What was that supposed to mean?

He almost grabbed Spike to sit him back down. With wrangling and painful force, he mitigated the urge.

“Bye, Wordy!”

Wordy waved. “See you, squirt!”

He hit Greg’s number on speed dial before Spike even left the building.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wordy's hug to Spike is partly inspired by a head canon I have that I realized the show, in my re-watch of it, actually backs up - no one ever yells at Spike unless it's for his protection and unlike almost every other person we see, he's never the close-to-body hostage during drills. Just thought that was interesting...


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Mike, please don’t ever, ever…” Ed had to stop, nose scrunching. Not from anger, but emotion. “Don’t ever feel like you have to hide something from us, from me. I don’t care what it is. You don’t handle things on your own, got it? When you’re hurt, so are we.”

“Can I just—?”

“Not. Another. Word.”

“You’re lucky I’m not your superior anymore or I’d call that insubordination.”

Jules dangerously took her eyes off the road to level a lethal glower at Greg. “You would never have written me up anyway.”

Greg’s lips pursed. “Probably not. But I wanted—”

“No.”

“Jules—”

“Nope. Nuh-uh.” Jules’s knuckles were pearls around the wheel. “I cannot _believe _you, Ed, and Sam knew about this for over a week—a _week, _Greg!—and didn’t tell me.”

“We just wanted to assess—”

“No! Absolutely not!” Jules’ infinite ranting had ended after twenty minutes of driving but Greg felt her winding up again. “You do not get to keep a secret like that and then just…just _not do anything_ about it!”

“We were doing something.”

“Keeping an ‘eye on him’ is passive and you know it.”

Greg hesitated. “Ed and I have a drive-by schedule every night, trying to catch his abuser in the act. Don’t tell him I told you.”

This actually seemed to pacify Jules a hair. “Better than nothing. Sam’s been edgy about it ever since he gave Spike a ride to work. Keeps coming in early to catch the tail end of our shift.”

“I just…didn’t want to push him, Jules. He’s touch-and-go right now. Spooked to high heaven.”

A muscle bobbed in Jules’ cheek, right above her jaw.

“I wanna punch him,” she muttered. And Greg agreed, whoever this man was. “Bastard doesn’t even deserve to be arrested. Punch him right in the balls…”

Greg opened his mouth and then thought better of it. At least she wasn’t yelling at _him_ anymore. When she’d found out—Wordy called her yesterday too—she confronted him right there in the SRU lobby. Greg had rarely seen the woman so overcome with that brand of rage:

Red, blood lusted, trembling, a motionless snake dying to strike.

It heaved up the emotions all over again. Ones Greg had been fighting ever since that disastrous moment in the briefing room Saturday.

This was _Spike_ being hurt and manipulated. It pushed every single one of their buttons, especially in an older sister figure like Jules. To be able to protect the city but not one of their own had hit them. _Hard_.

Jules’ quiet tantrum trickled off into silence.

She shook her head. Her rock hard tone began to crack. “We’re a _family_, Greg, whether we’re comfortable admitting it or not. The six of us…I’m amazed at how so little has changed and we’ve held on, even scattered away from each other.”

Greg’s eyes stung.

“So you can’t keep a secret like this,” said Jules. “Not when it compromises someone’s security.”

A double-edged word to use, and they both sensed it. 

“He said he wanted to fight his own battle.” Greg was suddenly hoarse. “I respected that choice.”

Jules parked at the curb to the apartment building, but she didn’t unbuckle right away. “He didn’t tell me.”

Greg took her hand. “I’m sorry you were the last to find out. If it makes you feel any better, he didn’t really tell me either. I have no idea what the context of all this is.”

Jules inhaled a sharp breath and turned off the car. “Then let’s go find out. Enough is enough.”

They rode the elevator up but once on the correct floor, there was no stopping Jules. She slowed down a bit for Greg and his cane, thrumming with impatience. Greg again marvelled at how fast she was, despite being the smallest of them all.

She was also still in her gear, having come straight from work, an intentional choice if the intimidating figure she cut was any indication.

Greg wasn’t sure what reception he expected from Spike at their mini intervention. Anger at how nosy they’d been? Shame—misplaced—for not solving this by now? Relief? Fatigue now that the danger was gone? Humiliation?

None of those things, it turned out.

When they took a right at the corner, Greg’s heart shot into overdrive.

The man looming over Spike wasn’t exactly the monster they’d all pictured. He was a good two or three inches taller, lighter haired than Spike, and tanned. Well dressed, clean.

And furious. This caught both their gazes first.

Spike looked angry too, but his was diluted with distress. They argued outside his open apartment door, just below an odd looking, homemade camera, with hissed voices. Over twenty feet of hallway prevented Greg from hearing more than snippets—

“It doesn’t matter what my choice is now,” snapped Spike. “It’s done.”

“…_your_ fault.”

“Mine? How…”

“_You _told them…”

“…trained to profile…”

—But he didn’t really care about the topic of this fight.

Greg’s focus tunnel-visioned to that certain wideness of Spike’s eyes, the curl of his shoulders, his back to the wall. Was this what he had looked like as a child, being shoved into a closet by larger hands?

The man raised his palm as if to slap Spike right across the face. Judging by a harsh flare in Spike’s eyes, it wasn’t the first time.

While the sight seized Greg’s tongue, it positively _thrashed _Jules to life.

“_HEY! Stop right there!_”

Her bullwhip holler made every single one of them jump, even Greg. All the men froze.

Spike didn’t look at her at all.

Magnetized after years of trust and love, Spike’s gaze shot directly to Greg. The hurricane, wild, inside Spike’s eyes blustered around their heads. They became the eye of this invisible storm and something stilled inside Greg’s chest.

Spike, for his part, ceased his frown. His forehead relaxed. Knees and shoulders straightened.

Greg didn’t mouth or say one word, yet the sight of him seemed to zap Spike with resolve. Like the air just before a lightning strike, the hallway supercharged, static. Greg half checked Jules to see if her hair stood on end like the ones on his hands.

Spike whipped around to stare straight at his assailant.

Despite hours of one-on-one training time with Ed, Spike still couldn’t put on muscle like the others. In terms of height to muscle ratio, Spike was the leanest, all lithe and lanky. A runner’s frame.

No matter how hard he trained, he couldn’t bulk up past a certain point. He made up for this in other ways, able to shimmy into tight spots, agile to the point of miraculous, filled to brimming with endurance thanks to longer muscles taking more time to burn out.

Absolutely none of these disadvantages mattered when Spike glared someone down like this.

In a move so fluid Greg barely caught it, Spike grappled the man’s wrist and twisted his arm behind his back—leaving him pinned by his chest to the very wall where Spike had been standing.

A perfect maneuver.

The man, still stunned from the appearance of Jules and Greg, grunted with the sudden exit of breath.

“No more, Kyle,” said Spike. “What’s done is done. Leave me be or I won’t play so nice next time.”

He stepped back to release the man but Jules darted the last few paces. She kicked Kyle’s legs apart. For a moment Greg really did think she was going to rip him a new one until she patted him down for concealed weapons.

“Not so fast. You’re under arrest for harassment and assault.”

“Now, Jules—”

Jules whirled on her friend and Spike took a step away at the intensity burning off her. Jules shrank into herself at once.

Spike responded in kind, his pale face regaining some colour.

“You’re lucky my friend is much kinder than I am,” said Jules to Kyle, still not taking her eyes off Spike. “And that I don’t want to upset him. What you’ve done here is a serious offence and I don’t even know the whole story.”

Greg finally caught up and wasted no time in reaching for Spike. To his worry, Spike was stiff under his arm when he looped it around the man’s shoulders. He wouldn’t settle, wouldn’t relax. Spike kept his eyes on Kyle, face blank.

“I don’t want to press charges,” he said.

“Too bad.” And to Greg’s credit, he actually managed to sound contrite. “Because I do.”

He _also _wanted to pistol whip Kyle's smug face but he didn't mention this part. Didn't point out the slight shake in his hands that came, not from shock, but that same blood lust Jules was fighting. 

“Not your choice,” Spike pushed.

Jules looked pointedly at Greg. ‘_Control_,’ she mouthed.

Greg sighed, because she was right as usual. They could intervene but they had no right to override Spike’s decisions. He had so little to be confident about in this situation and Greg made it his life mission, all those months ago, to be the furthest thing possible from Dominic Scarlatti. To repair the broken pieces of Spike's understanding of love. So Greg just nodded and squeezed Spike a little tighter. 

The shock seemed to be wearing off for Kyle. He even smirked over his shoulder at Jules, then at Spike. “Now if _she’d_ stepped into the office that day, I might have just let her do it. Take back what’s mine in other ways, know what I mean?”

Eyes hard, stone cold, Spike calmly walked up, swung back his arm, and punched Kyle across his nose. Blood gushed onto that expensive shirt, down his chest.

“Police brutality!” Kyle bawled.

Jules’ mouth hung open, brows disappeared into her bangs. Greg realized he wore the same astonished expression, mixed with a faint grin.

Shaking herself, Jules glanced at Greg. “I didn’t see anything, did you?”

“Sure I did.” Greg sniffed. “Self-defence is a citizen’s right.”

“Oh come on!” Kyle spit out a clot.

Greg knuckled the tech’s shoulder. “Right, Spike?”

Spike’s cheeks lifted to reveal his dimples, sparking with humour. “Right.”

“Get out of here.” Jules shoved Kyle away from them. “If I _ever_ see you in this neighbourhood I’ll report you so fast you’ll wish Mike had shot you instead. Are we clear?”

In answer, staring a touch fearfully at Spike and his police buddies, Kyle took off down the hall. Only when he disappeared around the corner did Spike close his eyes, drooping.

Greg caught him around the chest. “Whoa, hey.”

“I’m good.” Spike rubbed both hands over his eyes, leaning on the wall. “Give me a sec. And…thank you.”

“We didn’t do anything, Spike.” Greg thumbed at his shoulder. “That was all you.”

“Maybe he’ll finally get the message now.” Spike’s wide eyes didn’t match the nervous pinch of his lips. “Sorry you had to…see me like that.”

A boom of fury resonated through Greg’s chest. “Don’t you dare apologize. You are not weak and you have every right to be scared.”

Jules pulled Spike in for a quick hug and he bent down to meet her. “You good?”

“Oh yeah.” Spike swallowed. “I am now.”

Greg and Jules shared a doubtful look but didn’t argue, only to herd Spike down into Jules’ car. Greg came down a few moments later with an overnight bag full of Spike's clothes. 

“Where are we going?” the tech asked, voice matching how tired he looked.

“Oh, didn’t I mention?” Greg looked up from a rapid round of texting. “I’m having a movie night at my place.”

“Movie night?” Spike blinked at Greg where he’d stuffed himself into the backseat next to his boy. His bleariness was both concerning and endearing. “When did this come up?”

“Must have slipped my mind.”

Jules grinned in the rear view mirror.

They bundled Spike into Greg’s house, which now smelled strongly of quiche, thanks to Marina. She didn’t fuss or try to split them up, save to steal a kiss from Greg and press a mug of something hot into Spike’s hands where Jules had dumped him on the couch.

The two sat next to each other while Greg watched from the entryway. Jules stuck on a random movie—_The Princess Bride—_and stuffed her face with quiche. Spike nibbled at his, gaze far away. The noise appeared to keep him numb, hovering somewhere in the liminality between shock and relief. He looked startled to find himself in Greg's house, this familiar and safe space, without being badgered about what happened. His big eyes blinked between Jules and the quiche. 

Greg’s eyes narrowed, hot and fond. He thought his heart would explode, one of these days. His front door creaked open without so much as a knock and Greg's smile widened. 

“It’s over?”

Without turning around, Greg nodded. “Yeah, Eddie. It’s over. At least the dangerous part of this. I still don’t know _why_ he was assaulting Spike, but it’s not happening any more so…”

Sam pulled up flush on Greg’s other side. “So I’ll take that as a win.”

Wordy was the last through the door and his shaking started up when he saw Spike and Jules, sharing a blanket. That primordial sixth sense the three older men shared. “Please tell me someone decked this Kyle guy.”

Greg laughed. “Broke his nose. Spike’ll be cleaning blood out of his welcome mat for weeks.”

“Jules?” Ed asked.

“No, Spike.”

The three rumbled impressed sounds.

Suddenly Sam took a long breath and marched into the living room. His face visibly configured into something mischievous. “Figures you’d be hogging the food!”

Jules shielded her plate with an arm. “What’ll you pay me for it?”

“How about a kiss?” He leaned down.

Jules put a finger to her husband’s lips. “Uh-uh. Find me some dessert and we’ll call it a deal.”

Wordy held up a bag and jostled it to get the younger ones’ attention. “Oh, like fudge cake?”

“Wordy, you’re a saint.” Jules made grabby hands.

Even Spike’s eyes followed the motion, though he still had yet to speak since arriving at Greg’s house, nearly an hour, which upset him. The tech watched Sam, Jules, and Wordy cozy up around him, Wordy on the couch and Sam on the floor, back to his wife’s legs. They didn't ask about what happened or look at him with sad eyes; they just casually touched Spike, hands brushing his shoulder and knees bumping and warm fingers ruffling his hair. 

Spike’s eyes held a similar affection, an echo of Greg’s.

Sam twisted around to gently examine his friend’s knuckles. “Good one. Must have really busted his face.”

Spike was quiet for a moment and Greg held his breath, wondering if he'd clam up altogether. Then the tech opened his mouth with a shy expression. “Can’t let people go around hurting or insulting my friends now, can I?”

Sam’s half smile dripped with that conspirator’s pride. “No, you can’t.”

Spike flushed at his praise. 

The sight made Ed beam and he shuffled into the fray. This involved lots of exaggerated stepping over other people’s feet and strewn pillows, thanks in part to the smaller size of Greg’s living room. Someone threw a piece of broccoli at him. 

Ed ignored the other three’s shooing motions—“Get out of the way, Ed,” “This is the best part! I can’t see!”—to steal the last seat on the couch.

Spike studied him too, wary.

After usurping Wordy’s former spot, Ed sat on Spike’s right and angled forward so they were eye-to-eye. Spike didn’t look away but his lips twisted, quicker than a flash. He seemed blinded by something in Ed’s eyes.

Ed clasped Spike’s neck where it met his shoulder. “I have to write a discreet incident report about what happened, all of Kyle’s assaults. I’m going to need details, maybe some footage from that camera you set up.”

Spike swallowed. “I know.”

“Mike, please don’t ever, _ever_…” Ed had to stop, nose scrunching. Not from anger, but emotion. “Don’t ever feel like you have to hide something from us, from me. I don’t care what it is. Assault is not a 'battle' to be won or something to be ashamed of. You don’t handle things on your own, got it? When you’re hurt, so are we.”

Spike’s eyes did a circle of the room, to the collection of his own books on the coffee table, the others happily chewing away, chocolate on their fingers, to Greg leaning on his cane in the doorway, to this six person family everyone said would never last.

He tilted his head and the convulsive bobbing of his throat stopped.

“Yeah,” Spike sounded like he was addressing the room, the whole world. “I got it.”

And for perhaps the very first time ever, Greg thought maybe he did.


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Greg remembered the first time Dean figured out, just a bit, that Santa Clause may not be real. The secret of how it all worked.
> 
> Sam looked a little bit like that now, a child who’d grown up into a man, only to realize the implications.

“Parker. There’s a visitor here for you.”

Greg’s eyes flipped up from grading papers on his desk. He hardly ever got visitors at work and when he did it was usually either Marina with a lunch he forgot to take or Dean complaining about grumpy professors. They were never announced.

“Who…?”

But the secretary was already gone. Greg watched him go and another man take his place. A familiar crop of golden hair angled around the door.

“Am I interrupting?”

“No, no!” Greg stood. “Come in, Sam.”

Sam waited for Greg to sit down and then pulled up a chair in front of the desk. He was still in his vest and gear, but wore no earpiece.

“Just got off shift?” Greg guessed.

“Yep. Only patrols today so no debrief to get back to. How goes life teaching the next generation?”

Greg favoured him with an indulgent smile for the same exchange they had every time: “They’ve got a full tank of energy…”

“Wasted on a smaller engine.” Sam laughed. “No new surprises then, I take it?”

“Just you.”

To most people, Sam was a calm person. And he was. He’d been trained to conserve strength; every movement had a deliberate purpose and use for maximum efficiency. He was the very definition of eagle-eyed, a mini Ed Lane with supplementary combat experience overseas.

He didn’t _do _‘fidgeting.’

But Sam always had a certain _potential energy _that could be felt even at a distance. A coiling ready to launch in a split second. He hummed, in a way. His very muscles, still but poised, made noise, especially to a profiler like Greg.

That’s why it took a moment for Greg to notice what felt different, why his senses went on alert.

Sam was _still_.

Not so much as a finger was tensed or wound up in his body.

Instead, a bone deep something painted shadows around his eyes. Not fatigue, exactly, not sorrow. Greg struggled to name the look. Sam was on the edge of his seat, elbows braced on the arm rests, just like that day in Holleran’s office.

Had it really only been two weeks ago?

A lifetime had passed, filled with images that would haunt Greg for years.

“Boss,” said Sam, when the silence had gone on long enough to be concerning. “I just came…I just need to explain why I never told you or Ed or my wife about the man who hit us both that day. Why I never wrote him up.”

“Is it important?” That wasn’t the question Greg meant to ask but it seemed right.

“Not to you or I.” Sam shook his head. “But to Spike, yes.”

“You’re brothers,” said Greg, without a drop of irony. “Your loyalty to him and this secret outweighs any professional obligation.”

Sam’s brow kneaded high. “You know about that?”

“Not specifics,” said Greg. “No. But I do know Kyle was tied up with whatever Spike is ashamed of.”

Sam’s eyes darted back and forth across the floor, fighting an inner battle. “I don’t know a whole lot of specifics either, but Kyle has an opioid problem that Spike figured out and explained to the company.”

“And Kyle got angry about that.”

“He claimed Spike had cost him a job opportunity, but by the sounds of it Kyle did that to himself.” Sam couldn’t contain a wry look, coated with disdain. “He was a write-off to this security company long before Spike came along.”

“Wait, security company?” Greg’s eyes narrowed. “Is Spike looking for a job?”

“I really don’t know the whole story. But Spike made me promise to keep it a secret either way. That no one could know about Kyle or the security company offering him a position. Kyle was trying to threaten him, get Spike to turn down the job.”

Greg eased back in his chair, mind spinning.

“Kyle was high, out of control, that day. I found him slamming Spike against a wall.” Sam mirrored Greg’s pained eyes. “I’ve never seen him like that. He looked…”

“Frozen,” said Greg.

“Exactly. Like he was trapped somewhere in his mind.”

Greg knew exactly where. Knew it so intimately he hated it.

Silence fell again and, if possible, Sam ceased moving altogether. The office’s air was so inert, so quiet, Greg wondered if Sam’s heart had stopped beating or if someone had pressed paused on the universe outside their bodies.

“Do you remember that night with Jill, the museum shooting?” Sam asked in a reverent murmur.

Greg nodded. He couldn’t find words, in this moment.

“I meant what I said to her.” Sam’s eyes glowed with determination and that new, dark colour. “Greg, some people need to be protected.”

Greg had gone over the reports of each interrogation, had bristled at Jill’s aggression towards his team mates.

The thought struck him suddenly, replaying Sam’s words—he was a parent now. He wrestled with his own instincts and needs towards those he treasured.

Like the axis balance of a swinging pendulum, Greg recognized the shadows in Sam’s eye and it rendered him weightless—

It was understanding.

The dark, sticky arms of wisdom that warmed and strangled all in one breath. The deeper pockets of a man’s soul that promised retribution for the shedding of a loved one’s blood.

Sam said nothing while all this rippled across Greg’s skin, open on his face for Sam to read.

He just cast Greg a long, knowing look, and blinked back a sheen clumping his lashes.

“Spike isn’t helpless,” said Greg, once he’d licked away the sandpaper in his mouth. “You said that to Jill, but he’s not.”

“No, he isn’t. He doesn’t need our physical protection, has a brain that could—that _has_—run circles around this city. Has a fire inside him to rival Jules. He’s saved my life so many times I’ve lost count. There’s no one more capable.”

“But you’re not talking about that kind of vulnerability, are you?”

Sam sighed through his nose. He hid his lips with lax fingers, eyes far away for a beat.

“I worked with EOD techs in Afghanistan. They were a certain breed. Difficult with authority, creative to the point of madness, but treated carefully because so much of their job was done alone, under enormous pressure, and they needed support.”

Greg had read psych profiles of bomb disposal units for his thesis, the strange and unique element EODs always added to an otherwise macho and hot blooded team. Sam didn’t elaborate on the comparison, didn’t need to.

He pointed at Greg and said, slightly choked up, “He’s different than all of us and you know it. You’ve downplayed it, covered it up, for years.”

Greg longed for a glass of scotch, the first pang of desire he’d had in ages.

He almost begged Sam not to say it, the penultimate truth they were hovering around like a loaded gun.

“Spike could get shot, tortured, see the worst of humanity.” Sam’s eyes were big and earnest now, baring all the intimate nooks of his character. “And he’d still be purer than all of us put together.”

_I know. I knowIknowIknow._ In a poisonous wave, Greg fought back a shot glass of nausea.

“Because this.” Sam leaned across the desk to tap Greg’s chest. “This is his weakest and strongest point. Even against all the EODs I’ve ever met, Spike is a caliber of his own.”

Greg remembered the first time Dean figured out, just a bit, that Santa Clause may not be real. The secret of how it all worked.

Sam looked a little bit like that now, a child who’d grown up into a man, only to realize the implications. The threat to Spike’s already sutured heart. Sutured a hundred times over, some by Greg’s own hand. How many people had hurt Spike and used him…

Yet how he still saw the best in people.

“Other cops,” Sam continued, like he couldn’t stop himself now that he’d started, “They lose their wonder after a while. Not jaded, necessarily. Just world-wise. Dulled at the edges, expecting how things may go wrong.”

Not Spike. Spike still gasped at every extreme act of violence and got bright-eyed by betrayal. Sometimes even on a call, not in private like the rest of them.

“There’s no bullet proof vest for this kind of threat.” Sam’s tone turned pleading, fraught. “This can’t happen again.”

Greg looked Sam dead in the eye and carried the heft of his lilting spirit for a brief, exquisite moment. “That’s what we’re here for. Sam, we _are_ his vest.”

“And if we fail?”

“We won’t.”

Sam sat back. “I sort of feel like we just did.”

“He broke through on his own,” Greg whispered. “In the hallway. Fought back to protect himself.”

Sam pinned him with one raised brow. “Because he saw _you_.”

“Yeah, well. Now you know why we had to have cake and a movie night.”

Sam and Greg grinned at the memory of Spike following Jules’ lead and nodding off against Ed’s knees, after he’d given up his seat to Greg and sat on the floor. How Ed held himself perfectly still to not wake them.

The image of their heads, one against each knee, would remain a cherished memory.

“It’s not even the physical assaults that bother me the most.” _Now _Sam looked tired. “It’s that he felt terrified, alone, and didn’t tell us.”

“He’s strong, Sam. Heaven knows how much childhood conditioning he’s overcome.”

Sam fell silent while this fact floated somewhere near the ceiling over their heads. Down the hall, a class of freshmen were released for the evening, chattering, the jangling of their lanyards and temporary badges a symphony of the future.

“He bridges that gap in a way I’ve never seen before,” said Sam. “Neither fully on the offense as a stereotypical cop nor even close to naive enough to be in the same category as a civilian.”

“He’s innocent.” Greg finally spoke it out loud, the ‘secret’ tucked close to his chest for over seven years. “He’s an innocent cop.”

“Like I said.” Sam’s eyes thawed the cooled air of this heavy conversation. They were warm, very _Samtastic_, and with them the world resumed again. “Some people just need to be protected.”


	9. Chapter 9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “What if I mess it up?” 
> 
> Laughter swelled inside Greg. He breathed it back, not fast enough. Spike frowned a question. 
> 
> “Spike, I mean this with my whole heart: you’re not going to mess it up, not in the way you think.” Greg smiled. “Take it from a guy who royally screwed up.”
> 
> “But what if I do?”
> 
> “Then, Mr. Scarlatti, I will be there to talk some sense into you. Like I’m doing right now.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to whoever read this story. I know we all love some Winnie/Spike action but this series is more about the love between their little family unit and how they make peace with some dark memories. 
> 
> Maybe someday I'll write the happy couple a wedding piece!

'The sun will rise, the sun will rise,  
Bringing life to the earth  
as it springs from the ground.  
The sun will rise, the sun will rise—  
Won't you dry all your tears, lay your burden down?'

"The Sun Will Rise" ~ The Brilliance

Five thirty in the morning was an atrocious time for this type of call. A bad time for _any _call.

Marina rolled over, right back to sleep, but Greg stumbled into a sweater and pants before the voice on the other end finished talking. The world tilted—_forgot the cane_. Greg used the wall to pat around in the dark, with his free hand. 

“You’re sure?”

“_Greg. I’m telling you. He didn’t show up for work this morning and he was subdued last night. So yes, I’m worried._”

“Okay, okay.” Greg wished Ed was here in person so he could grab him by the shoulders, stop the pacing that was obvious by his breathing pattern. “Just…take a minute. Did he say anything about what’s going on at home? Winnie doesn’t know?”

“_She’s as freaked out as I am. His phone’s off and his car is still sitting in his apartment lot. Empty. He left me a voicemail that he had an unexpected appointment. Didn’t say where._”

Something cold met Greg’s fingers. _Gotcha! _He used the cane to push himself to standing and out the door.

“Is it an important date, Ed? Did we miss something?”

A pause. “_I don’t think so. Lew’s anniversary is coming up but it’s not for another month. He doesn’t even mention his father’s._”

So not like the bar incident.

Greg hovered in his driveway, mind toying with all the pieces. Something occurred to him. “Ed, you took Kyle Hurley’s statement when you booked him, right?”

“_Yeah, the judge ruled probation with rehab, why?_”

“What company did Kyle interview for, that rejected him on the basis of his drug addiction?”

“_Uh…hold on._” There was a silence, broken by the fluttering of paper. Greg marveled at the quiet street, pavement wet with dew, and the slice of sunshine starting over his roof. “_It’s a contracting company with CSIS. Burris Security_.”

Bingo.

“Ed, that’s downtown.”

“_I’m on it._”

“No, no.” Greg hopped into his car. “Give me a head start. Besides, you’re on call.”

“_You sure?_”

“Very sure. I don’t think this is about job offers at all. I doubt he even met with them this morning.”

“_I just called them, Greg, when I put you on hold. You’re right—he never showed for the secondary interview. How did you know that?_”

“Gut instinct left over from years of reading people?”

“_Uh-huh. Nice try_.”

Heat crawled up Greg’s neck.

“_Fathers know best?_” Ed wheedled.

“Is that the pot calling the kettle black, Eddie? Sod off and lift some weights or something. And thanks for letting me know.”

Ed’s cackling was the last thing Greg heard before he hung up. He appreciated the dawn hour, which left the roads much less congested than they would be in two hours.

After a few drive by surveys, Greg followed his hunch and parked along Queens Quay. Like all city dwellers, he was drawn to the rare sight of green things, leading him to trace the waterfront towards HTO Park.

Greg passed the line of maple trees twice before he thought to breech the boundary line between them. Most children didn’t play beyond this natural fence.

It left the view that opened up before him private, isolated except for the friendly cries of sailors far down the docks. Crisp air off Lake Ontario whistled through his sweater.

There, a stone’s throw from the lapping waves, sat Spike.

He had his back to Greg, but the sound of approaching footsteps, in that distinct limping rhythm, made the tech sit upright. He wore a charcoal suit and robin’s egg shirt, no tie, Converse hidden by his trouser legs.

He looked more well rested, now that he didn't have his hackles up, waiting to be pushed around every time he went home. The first two nights after it all came out, statements taken, Greg had made him stay in the guest bedroom. An indulgent move, but effective when Spike slept for over fourteen consecutive hours. 

Greg plopped down next to him on the big, flat boulder he’d found. It was surprisingly comfortable.

The sunrise looked spectacular here, certainly better than Greg’s driveway. Pink sprays flecked along a sapphire blue that coyly peeked out from golden fan lines in the clouds.

And finally, in the fermata to an epic symphony, Greg stilled too. The chugging pace of life felt _right_.

Dried tear lines shone all the way down Spike’s face, but now his breathing was even. Eyes calm.

Together, they watched little white boats drift off into the blue.

Greg wondered where he’d be if he had never met Spike. Had hired some other technicians—for it often took two or three people to do what Spike accomplished in minutes.

Would he feel this warm glow of love in his heart? Would he have learned how to be a good father for Dean? Would this team be the tightly glued family it was now?

Greg luxuriated in the sun on his face, Spike’s arm seeping warmth through his sleeve, and didn’t want to imagine such a dark place.

“I can’t do it.”

Greg turned to Spike. “Can’t do what?”

“I tried and I _tried_ but I just can’t.”

A particularly bold wave hit the rocks, with the increase of wind. The spray whispered over their faces in invisible droplets.

“You can’t take this employment offer?”

Spike shook his head. “I can’t choose. I can’t leave but I…”

Greg enveloped Spike’s hands in one of his own and found them ice cold. He wondered how long Spike had been sitting here. “Who’s making you choose between being a cop or this job?”

“No one.” Spike shook his head like a dog with water in his ears. “I started looking for another career. We sacrifice for the people we love, right? That’s the correct choice. It has to be.”

Greg rubbed at the chilled digits to increase circulation. “Did Winnie ask you to leave the force?”

“We’re getting…more serious. It came up one night, that she’s worried about having kids.”

“Why is that?”

“What if one of us dies on a call, or both? The stress, the inconsistency. She said she couldn’t imagine raising children in that environment, with the way our lives are now.”

Some days Greg felt more like a doctor than a profiler. In the sense that he was a surgeon, looking at the throbbing, oozing wounds people tried to keep hidden or power through. Until they inevitably bled all over the streets.

“I don’t think Winnie wants you to give up who you are, Spike, which is a cop who helps people.” Greg kept his cadence low. “Don’t fret over something that hasn’t even happened yet. You’ll find a way through that problem when it comes up. Together. That’s how it should be.”

Spike exhaled, ragged. A tear snuck out before he could stop it. “I’m scared.”

Rather than be rocked by the blurted admission, Greg wanted to collapse in a puddle of relief. Abject relief. “Thank God.”

Spike startled. He looked at Greg for the first time. “Boss—”

“No, Spike.” Greg reached over with his other hand and captured Spike’s in a protective ball of skin and bone. So ineffective, not like bullet proof vests or Kevlar. Yet so alive, healing. “You are not weak for being scared. I’m just relieved you trust me with it. That you’re learning to tell us.”

A shallow line swam in Spike’s eyes. “By all rights, this is the happiest I’ve ever been in my life. I feel more loved than I can wrap my head around. And…” He gasped a wet sound. “And I don’t know if I can do it.”

“Not by yourself you can’t.” Greg shook their hands. “None of us can. That’s the _point_, Spike. We’re all precariously balanced, holding each other up.”

Like children in third world countries, who often panicked at the sight of a table full of food, Spike looked fearful at the prospect of all the love there for him to enjoy. No price tag to be a part of it. Dazed by possibility and hope.

“Everything is changing,” Spike whispered.

“Yeah, it is.”

“You’re not there on calls. Wordy’s really sick, probably retiring soon.”

“Sam’s leading a team,” Greg finished for him. “And you have a new relationship in your life.”

Spike’s lips quivered. “I don’t know if I’m ready.”

_There_ it was. The stockpiled fear that sparked this whole thing.

Greg responded to the grief in his boy involuntarily, sniffing. He shifted one hand to cup Spike’s cheek. “You want to know a secret?”

“What?”

“I’m not ready either.”

Spike reached up and touched the hand. “_Greg_.”

“If you felt ready, son, that’s when I’d be worried.”

“Really?”

Greg lost his breath for a moment. Those big eyes locked on him, complete weight of trust willing to lean wherever Greg sent him, that face too young and too old all at once.

“_Really_, Spike. The future is scary—for all of us, not just you.”

“Nothing is going to be the way it was.”

Greg’s heart broke. He thumbed underneath Spike’s wet eye and loved him too much to lie. “No, it won’t.”

“What if I mess it up?”

Laughter swelled inside Greg. He breathed it back, not fast enough. Spike frowned a question.

“Spike, I mean this with my whole heart: you’re not going to mess it up, not in the way you think.” Greg smiled. “Take it from a guy who royally screwed up.”

“But what if I do?”

“Then, Mr. Scarlatti, I will be there to talk some sense into you. Like I’m doing right now.”

Spike looked away, out to shore. Greg let him, leaning back, but still in Spike’s space. Reading the expressive face when it bunched and then smoothed.

“I didn’t want to let you down, to see you or Ed angry,” said Spike. His voice wavered. “If you found out I wanted to leave the force, after all you’ve done for me, I figured you’d…you wouldn’t let me into your lives. I thought I had to choose between Winnie or you.”

A throbbing started behind Greg’s eyes. This boy. This _precious_ boy.

“Michelangelo—we will always, _always_ be your family. You’re not going to lose us just because we don’t work together. If nothing else, I hope this week has shown that.”

Spike’s breathing hitched.

“Our love for you is not based on this job.” Greg squeezed their hands, all balled and twined around each other. “It’s not based on performance or some reward system or any other aptitude, understand? We love you, Mike, because you’re _you_.”

They were close enough that it shook both their bodies when Spike forced down a sob. His lips thinned, like he could physically hold it back.

Greg wrapped him up in his arms, still bent to meet his eyes head on. Overwhelmed, he rocked them a few times. “You’re my _son_. That’s a forever deal, Spike. You’re stuck with me, no matter what happens next.”

“Promise?”

“What, you want me to pinky swear like middle school girls?”

It started with a flicker at the tips of Spike’s mouth. His cheeks tightened and his wet lashes twitched higher, dimples creasing in a luminous grin. He opened and closed his mouth a few times.

Then his eyes went still too.

“I love you, Greg.”

The simple choice of words would have brought Greg to his knees had he not already been sitting. A few tears got lost in dimples of his own.

It was the first time Spike had ever said it.

And Greg was glad he waited, because now he had a better understanding of what that meant.

Now Spike said it the way his father should have said it to him from the very beginning. Now it shone without dirt to smudge the light. Life hadn’t stamped out his fire.

Greg knew they’d all make sure it never would.

This time he grasped Spike’s face in both hands. Riding the tug in his chest, Greg pressed a kiss to his boy’s forehead.

“I love you too,” Greg breathed against the chilled skin. “More than you’ll ever know.”

Spike closed his eyes, breathed in the summer air, and looked at peace. They pulled apart, watching boats float out into the bright curtain of sunlight. Greg refused to let go of Spike's hands. 

Ed found them sometime later, tracking a long text from Greg’s phone.

His first declaration, pulling up next Spike, was, “Winnie says you’re an idiot.”

“Eddie!” Greg laughed around a huff.

But Spike just nodded. “She’s pretty smart.”

“And so are you.” Ed nudged his shoulder. “Push over.”

Spike slid down the rock so he was sandwiched between the two older men.

“She says, and I quote, ‘tell him that I didn’t mean he had to change who he was to make this work.’ She doesn’t want you to _leave_ _the force_, Spike.” Ed patted Spike’s knee. “Huh? What were you thinking?”

Greg leaned around to look at Ed. “You’re late to the pep talk.”

“I get it,” said Spike, looking a bit amused by the whole thing. “I was just trying to do right by those I love.”

Ed’s tough expression cracked into something tender. “Let me see it.”

Spike stared out at the water a moment longer and then removed an acceptance letter from his breast pocket, unsigned. A base contract.

Ed read over the details then bobbed his head once. “Right.”

And he tore the paper.

“Give me half,” said Greg.

Together, they minced it into tiny slivers, probably more than they had to. Certainly with more gusto than could pass for impartial.

Ed opened his palm.

In an oddly poetic sight, flakes of white floated off on the wind. Greg smiled and did the same. The trio watched them whip out into the middle of the lake, eddies of an untouched future. Greg could breathe again.

Spike got that _look _on his face. “Do mine eyes deceive me, or did two respected cops just litter?”

Ed pushed at Spike’s arm, for all the good it did to stop his cheeky grin. “Shut up, we’re having an inspirational moment!”

Greg joined along with a rumble in his chest. “You okay, Spike?”

Spike gazed at Greg with more adoration in his eyes than Greg could stand, pure and untainted. “Yeah, I think I am. Day at a time, right?”

“You got it.” Ed thumped the tech’s chest. “Let’s go patrol. I brought your gear along in the truck.”

Spike blinked at him. “You did?”

“Of course.” Ed ruffled his hair, a distinctly warm gesture instead of playful. All smoothing fingers and endless affection. Only Spike could elicit such a response from the tacit sniper. “I can’t do this without a partner. Without you.”

Spike looked back at Greg. His eyes were serious for a moment, before he winked. “Dinner is at the Braddocks' tonight. You’ll be there?”

Greg nodded.

He watched the two men walk away, thought he might combust from the pressure of love in his chest. Once further away, Ed wrapped an arm around Spike. Their heads bumped close while they talked.

Softly, heard only by the wind, Greg said, “Always, Spike. Always.”

FIN 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The spot Spike goes to actually exists - I have been there on a sunny evening and sat on a big, comfortable boulder beyond the playground, watching boats over the waves. If you ever get the chance, please lose yourself along Toronto's waterfront.

**Author's Note:**

> Written July 2019. I'm almost caught up and done the posting marathon of all my old work. Huzzah!


End file.
